Duel Vs Athoragg
by Kalar Nightblade
Summary: The Battle of Guilds draw near and Kalar is appointed champion of the Black Wolves in the second round, but his part would be swift.


Name : Stormbeard Heavyhand  
  
Weapons : An axe, his chain whip, his horned helmet when head butting, his sharp pointy teeth if he gets close enough (often favours biting peoples legs or thighs and is generally hard to make him stop till the fight is over.  
  
Armour : Norse Dwarven armour from Norsca (Chain mail all over with large plate mail shoulders) and a horned helmet.  
  
Race : Dwarf (possibly Norse Dwarf)  
  
Brief description : Short, Stocky, rather annoyed that people call him "Short Stuff" or "Lil Fella".  
  
Mental : Typical dwarf. Stubborn, likes combat, loves machines, and thinks his better than most things, rather good at using dirty tactics in fights (like head butting things in the groin).  
  
Fighting style : Beat people down to his level and then really hurt them OR just bite into them and don't let go till they go down or give up.  
  
Stormbeard Heavyhand swung rather unevenly from side to side as he twisted his body more than move his legs as he entered the arena. He stopped only for a moment to stare directly into the cold dark eyes of his rather vile opponent. Then, securing his whip to his side and stoking his long filthy beard he started to evaluate this Daemon boy.  
  
He was finally standing only metres from the rival that he would soon fell. Giving a loud cough he then spat towards the creatures' feet, giving a sneer that showed all the disdain and contempt he had for Elves and also that of Daemons.  
  
"Wha' do ya call yaself Elf-beast, Elf or Daemon? Cos when I kill ya I wan' ta know wha' ta say when I tell the tale of when I killed ya." He spat the words from his dark brown lips, hidden well beneath the brown hedge that he called a beard.  
  
The Elf replied by simply drawing his blades and telling the Dwarf in a long-winded way, how it would not be he who would die today.  
  
After a few more insults being hurled at each other in both of their native languages the fight began.  
  
The two of them stayed perfectly still, not even showing a sign of breathing for about four seconds, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Then suddenly Stormbeard Heavyhand rushed towards Kalar Nightblade with his axe running parallel with his own chest. Kalar Nightblade grinned wickedly at the sight of the Dwarf running and moved off to one side watching the Dwarf run straight by him carried by his own momentum, before striking the chubby little warrior in the back of the head with the palm of his hands. This sent the Dwarf tumbling across the arena and towards the crowd.  
  
Kalar Nightblade smirked at his opponent and decided that this stunty would be a rather easy kill, opting not to finish him there and then and let the fight play on a while for the crowds entertainment, and of course his own.  
  
Stormbeard Heavyhand though was not going to give up and rolled over and pushed himself back up onto his feet. All the while Kalar Nightblade trying to hold in a laugh at watching the Dwarf try to raise himself. As he reached his feet the Dwarf had grabbed his chain whip and proceeded to swing the metal lash and sent it in arcs towards the Elf, aiming only for the lower parts of the body. Stormbeard knew that Elves were fast but if he could take him off his feet then he would be at an advantage.  
  
Kalar dodged from side to side, just plainly showing off at times. But in a stroke of bad luck for him one of the swings of the whip connected and struck just over the knee and sent him to the ground clutching at the joint that started to swell up with unbelievable speed.  
  
"Got ya now didn' I." The Dwarf screamed over at the injured Elf.  
  
Surprisingly to most of the audience the Elf stood back up as if nothing had happened and shrieked back a mouthful of vile insults that had many of the other Elves cover their ears for the bitterness and foulness of the words spoken.  
  
Again they both stood face to face and what seemed like minutes to them passed, but in reality it was only a couple of seconds. Both of them were puffing and panting slightly, with beads of sweat dripping down the brow of the Dwarf. Neither of them was listening to see when the fight would be over, but also neither of them cared.  
  
In a blur of fluid motion the Elf darted to be behind the back of Stormbeard, before the Dwarf could react he felt touch of Soul Bane glide effortlessly up the back of his armour to his neck then cut into the skin. Stormbeard felt its dark caress at it drew energy from him like an assassin drew a knife from its hilt. Stormbeard had no time for this though and spun his body so that his left shoulder faced the Elf and with the large pads had managed to knock the blade from the hands or the Elf. This was followed quickly by a move he was more known for, and it was executed with almost as much speed as the Elf had shown only moments before. He head butted Kalar in the thigh and sunk one of the horns on his helm deep inside the leg of the Elf, despite the fact he was aiming for the groin when he had made the move.  
  
Now the two were locked in close quarters as the horn had become stuck on some of the armour and refused to get out, but this just left the opportunity for Stormbeard to do his other normal fighting move and bit deep into the other thigh of Kalar. Though no pain showed on the face of Kalar he had taken a lot of punishment.  
  
Two seconds remained of the fight and the crowd was rather hushed in awe and shock at the two fighters. And as the gong sounded to signal the end of the fight Stormbeard Heavyhand was about to take a rather large chunk out of Kalar Nightblades' leg, and Kalar Nightblade had his other dagger just about to go into the exposed throat to the Dwarf. They were quickly stopped by a spell that paralysed them both, or the Dwarf would have been dead, and the Elf missing about an eighth of his left leg.  
  
[center][b]* * *[/b] [/center]  
  
It had been snowing again. Soft, cold and silent the crystalline water lay as a silencing sheet over the landscape, enshrouding all in sight in a falsely soothing illusion of peace. Although the silence may have been there, the safety may necessarily not have to be a fact. In thick bushes not far from a renowned arena of tremendous importance, a sleek, feline body dashes lightly over the snow, leaving only tiny marks in its trail. A large, white-red tail covered in fluffy hairs sneak closer, its whiskers wavering slightly and the eyes steady on the target. Not yet have the grey rabbit recognised the pure power stalking it, but soon it shall be painfully enlightened. A hunch though, a sixth sense, calls for the rabbit's attention, and alas it stirs up on its hind legs, ears and eyes taking in the surroundings like an effective radar. The fox's black eyes indicate movement in the prey and as a result freeze in motion. For a moment, the two's eyes lock on to each other, predator and prey. A struggle of primeval will, a sudden decision of swift movement and finally life blood staining the white snow, ending with the predator biting the head of its quarry in a move so rapid the later has no chance. The fox doesn't smile, but one observing it could not have missed the faint sign of a satisfied grin.  
  
If we move on from the feast, we soon encounter the vivid tavern by ear. Rowdy discussion, cheerful boasting and violent settling fills the fresh winter air, and travellers draw near like moth to an open flame. Although not night-time, the tavern brings in folks on a regular basis. Maybe it is the suitable and fitting position the founder gave it that draws people from the road, but a secure card is news; news of the battles flourish in no place better than the tavern. We too join in, swiftly overhearing the stray voice of a dwarf sitting in the corner of the area, near the open fireplace and with a swing of ale high in hand. If we listen hard, we hear him discussing his coming opponent in the battle ahead, and several rude words follow as well as a thin hint of nervousness. We leave the dwarf to his own, maybe to take a good place in the arena. As we leave, a tall, striking elf enters from the winter's cold. One can't help to shiver as he walks, no, flow by.  
  
Stormbeard raised a bushy eyebrow, thick as a farmer's thumb and twice as dirty. Dwarves don't believe in co-incidents, and neither does he. After observing the fleet, black being that skilfully avoids getting touched by people in the tight crowd, he takes a sip as the other sits down on a thin chair in the corner of the tavern. A black robed man, short and frail it seems, sits opposite to him with his back to the dwarven and human company. Over the noise in the tavern, he neither can't hear them speak nor see their lips move, but he's convinced they speak. The closest guys listening to him turns around as they look upon what their brethren observes, but quickly look away again. Their feet suddenly get very interesting.  
  
Bretters Steampipe, a young dwarf, only twenty or so, turns to him. His beardless face looks pallid, something very unusual even for a young dwarven miner. His eyes tell of something Stormbeard too thinks frenziedly of, but currently ignores. The veteran dwarf didn't even have to hear his companion say what he had done; he knew it before he spoke. "'Eavy, ya mustn't.. we lot heard of him pointy, so don't.!" he stammered.  
  
"Yarr, I'm no 'fraid fer no elf." Stormbeard replied hastily, as he had trough the drunken haze realised that the youth lacked confidence in his skills. The fact infuriated him, and he rose from the chair hastily, spilling a few drops of ale in his beard. He raised his free hand and formed a pointing gesture against the elf, took in air and uttered a few, trusty words from the depth of his mind all the while avoiding to fall down again. Ale could be a heavy burden, and with some ten pines in his stomach it felt even heavier.  
  
"'Ey, pointy boy!", he said. The tavern fell a bit more silent as a few more eyes turned towards the dwarf. The dwarf, however, was busy thinking of something to say through his now very drunken clouds. When he saw the large, well-curved blade placed next to the elf-thing he made a few lines that followed, "Nice pigsticka o' yers, but 'm 'fraid dat won't do ya any good crossin' me trusted axe." He closed his eyes involuntarily, waiting for the storm of harsh words and for his mist to lift from his eyes.  
  
The elf still didn't reply, and when he opened his eyes he found that the elf-thing still hadn't moved. He decided, as a result in loss of mind- activity, that he would insult him. That'd be bringing attention. A few seconds passed, and he took heed. "I've sent my deal o' yer lot down the dark paths of dat dark god yer praying to, but still 'tis be my greatest fight."  
  
No reply still. The elfling man sat as shrouded in dim light, his being vaguely shifting in and out of focus. The dark clothes faded to the wooden wall behind him, and suddenly became as black as the darkest moor. Elegant, feline lines framed by silvery hair of lightest touch.. for a swift moment, Heavyhand was a bit jealous. To counter, he scratched his thick beard, sending one or two insects flying and thereby renewing the respect for himself and his brethren, before taking in a deep, deep breath; he was beginning to get in a mood now.. how it now could be, since he never came in a mood.  
  
"Laddy, I disgust yar kind. The pesterin', malicious folks of darky pointys ar 'ven worse than 'em pointy skirters."he snapped, raggling towards Kalar with a heightened fist, shaking so hard his little dwarf-body couldn't follow. Ale spread over the now surprised onlookers, and they didn't even mind. "Me family, me friends and me kin be sufferin' in yer mines, for yer kind to struggle toward 'ven more evil. Us wise dwarves, I say, be the ones suffering from yer stupidity!" he claimed, ending up in his wiggly steps right underneath the elf's perfectly formed and tanned nose.  
  
Kalar was forced to react. The smell was worse than a thousand boars deep in mud, at least to his overly keen senses. He still couldn't look on the dwarf, wary of what he would see. "Is that so, dwarf? Your drunken excuse for harsh-worded brawling tell me of no wisdom." He said, in the deepest tone of voice Stormbeard, or his friends, would ever hear.  
  
"Arrogant swagger!!" He spat out, a green lump of snort and vicious saliva hitting Nightblade square in the face, spreading over a large area. Not even the elf's skills could save him from, such an assault from such close range, and as far as he had remembered, no one had ever spitted him in the face. Kalar's cold features were momentarily emotionally loaded, as in deep regret, but his essence was simply drawn out again through some means. Someone who didn't regret spitting was Stormbeard, who raged on. "Ye ar' no better than the scum around this arena, swankin' around like ye own thes' darned streets. At normal, aye, I find ye killing a pity but today I be damn sure to kill ya for my o-n pleasure! I be a donk..". He was cut of. Abruptly, coldly and very, very disturbingly.  
  
Kalar's eyes consumed his whole being, it felt like, and Heavyhand couldn't help to feel naked, newborn and judged by the black abysses of deep chaos. He glared into the eyes, wanting to slit lose but unable to, watching the red fire burn deep within the bowels. He took a step back, fell clumsily over a chair, and sat like that. Kalar now spoke, slowly, like the never- ending wheel of time. "The first time you lay eyes in me, dwarf," he pontificated "you saw thine alpha. The next time, I'll be dealing your omega."  
  
With this, Heavyhand passed out of excessive alcohol consumption. He'd never done that before, and that was why the explanation seemed very vague to those he told on his last day. The thought that there had been terror behind this never occurred, but felt all so fitting at times.  
  
[center][b]* * *[/b] [/center]  
  
The battle had raged on. Those trustworthy spectators who travelled the empire around just to get a glance of exceptionary fighting weren't at all disappointed, noir surprised, by seeing Kalar Nightblade at the field. His tactics, to evaluate his enemy, sneak past him all the time and only to strike a few, well-placed blows were very familiar to them. However, to the rest of the arena, Kalar's excellent display of dodging, parrying and side- stepping gave awe to the acrobats, jealousy to the swordsmasters and a slight smile in the Black Wolves Fangs corner. The rowdy, bulky men of dubious quality cheered loudly, only ever stopping to kicking a poor man in the back or steal a beer from a passer-by. This wasn't the first time they had seen their captain fight, but that didn't mean that they didn't enjoy it the least. Wide cheers followed after Kalar yet again dodged a wild swipe from the axe, sending the dwarf sprawling into the wooden palisade behind his would have been target. While he tried to ferociously rip lose his axe, the lean elf bent down and whispered something in his ear. The result didn't wait.  
  
"Blast ye words, and damn you! To hell!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, ripping lose his axe and spun around so ferociously that the crowd held their breath of excitement, the sudden flurry of blows the dwarf presented a fantastic display. The counter started to get near the extended time, three minutes for a semi-final match, and so far Heavyhand's aggressive style wasn't entirely impressing, all the while Kalar's dodges and manoeuvres were splendid to behold. But still, the dwarf had the lead in points after managing to cut of a thin sliver from Kalar's cloak that had soun around in an almost living fashion.  
  
The flurry continued, and Stormbeard gained impetus as he realised that Kalar was jumping and strafing backwards towards the same palisade that surrounded them. He ignored the fact that Kalar was simply walking backwards, dodging and occasionally leaping out of the way. He had humiliated him, so far, without even holding the black weapon in his gauntlet-clad fist yet.  
  
In a display of true martial prowess, Kalar turned the tide, and launched a counter attack straight at Heavyhand's stubby head with the bottom of his boots. Through the air he rode, and landed hard upon the head, sending the little dwarf sprawling in an somersault before landing hard on the ground in a cloud of dust. The axe flew wide away, bouncing and jumping a few times before ending its flight on the opposite side of the arena. Outside, a rabbit became aware of a predator, and lost a leg.  
  
"Already been there." Kalar announced as he landed with a low thud, near the body of the dwarf. Forty-five seconds remained of the fight, and dwarf Stormbeard pulled himself up with a heave and a ho. The crowd cheered and booed over each other, feeling suddenly very aware of a deadly omen coming. Black eyes swept around the arena, before ending in a low, closed stance. The dark elf stood still, his eyes closed and focused in the ground. What he saw around him wasn't exciting, obviously, it was very depraving.  
  
The dwarf released the whip from his belt. Heavy chain rattled, and even a hasty look on the dwarf's face was enough to determine his condition. He was insane.. insane with rage. The thoughts of victory, of change in tide, of blood and broken skulls, of pleasure in bathing in warm life blood.. visions of chaos swept into him, as close to the northern boundary as they were, and enforced the already existing and created being of chaoticum that Kalar had sensed. He panted hard, and started a sprint towards his opponent, who had silently strode towards the opposite side of the ring to pick up his opponent's axe.  
  
Kalar dropped the original thought. The surge of emotions, of chaotic fuel, hit him like a tidal wave, enforcing his last night's decision. With a liquid move, he dropped the axe again, and before the sound of metal hitting pebbles was heard, he had unleashed the Soul Bane from it's scabbard. Red runes flowed across the length, and with deep lament in his eyes he looked upon the blade who had tasted so much blood and absorbed so much essence. The moment called for a last chance. "Any last words?" he asked, solemnly.  
  
"DIE! I SAY DIE!" the dwarven veteran shouted at the top of his lungs, the whip rattling and slashing around him. It would only be a matter of seconds before the juggernaut of fury would reach Kalar Nightblade, and even though the elf was masterful, he couldn't block a whip raging at that pace. Ten seconds left of the match, enough time for Heavyhand to slit Kalar's throat up after paralysing him. The daemonic hybrid sighed to himself, and whispered a few words only to his and nearby onlookers with exceptional hearing.  
  
"Give Khaine my best.."  
  
The eyes turned on the dwarf. [i]Flaming fire. Lost momentum. A leap in the speed of light, and a thin red line of crimson fire. The low thud of a partly metallic, partly flesh object rolling and falling. [/i]  
  
Stormbeard never knew what hit him, and his severed head forever will hold the drained essence of a surprised and terrified man, wrapped in beard and brow. Wiping the blood from the Soul Bane, and slowly putting it back, Kalar lifted his eyes to the heavens and let the fresh spiritual power arouse the daemon within. He couldn't help to enjoy it, although he despised himself. It only lasted a second or two before his total lack of emotions came back, but it made him feel.. alive.  
  
The crowd demanded an answer to why this had happened. Guards were entering the arena, as they so often did when Nightblade had sat his foot on it. Far above, he could feel the Shadow Court observing him. Kalar didn't even hesitate.  
  
"He was weak;" he proclaimed "He deserved to die." 


End file.
